Synchronicity
by xLilly White
Summary: Ardeth will stop at nothing to gain the knowledge he seeks. Ardeth/Meela. Rated M for explicit scenes.


- _for WolfgoddessMya._

• **Synchronicity **•  
•

_The light bulb was swaying dizzily around and around. Shadows leapt over their entwined bodies; darkness spread along the dip of her waist, the bones of his hands, pooling over their closed eyes. The heat was almost unbearable; outside they would sweat at a stand-still, so now, with her thigh hooked around his hip and his arm pressing her fully against him, the sweet perspiration glistened on their skin, rolled down their limbs, shone on their eyelids. _

_His mouth melted over hers, delicate, delicious. She arched her back against him, thighs tight around his hips, and his fingers kneaded her flesh as they slowly climbed up her legs, her torso, coming to squeeze into the gaps between her ribs. They were moving at a hypnotically slow rhythm, languorous movements betraying their restraint as they forced themselves to savour each precious sensation, and not just plunge into the act like barbarians. _

_He broke their kiss, lowering his chin and parting his thick lashes to glance at her face- her forehead was almost touching his, her mouth glistening as she let it hang open, and her eyes were downcast, watching her own hands as they clung to his throat, fingers shaking against his jawline, palms pressing against his shoulders. His hand came up, forcing her chin up as he ran his tongue up her neck, closing his burning mouth over her skin and making her shudder violently- she repressed a moan, a current of ice rushing in her lower body, making her instinctively pull him closer, deeper still. He hissed as she moved against him wantonly, biting back a groan of pleasure as she handled him just as subtly- lowering her chin too, she bit at his mouth and flitted her tongue against his, before bruising his lips with her own, catching his face in her hands again and unifying their movement, moving with him, never faster, never losing the sensuality._

_She remembered that last coherent thought that darted through her mind before he consumed her sense of reality completely; starting from when, exactly, had her reason left her; how in the name of Heaven had she let herself get this far…? _

• •

His finger traced the sharp stems of stone that coiled around each other, outlining the succession of little craters that a hammer and chisel had meticulously wrought. He could almost make out where the nose had been… and those two blows where the desecrator had struck hard and deep, he fancied they'd been the lips that had caused all the sorrow and dishonour.

The curator, secretly chief of one of the twelve Medjai tribes, had encouraged Ardeth's ventures to the Cairo museum of Antiquities- after all, a chieftain had to be learnt in the histories of the world in order to scrape together a semblance of wisdom. Ever since the first time Ardeth had set foot in the library, he had become enrapt by the sheer abundance of free knowledge that was stacked neatly in alphabetical order… answers to all his present questions and those he had yet to formulate lay scrawled over thick yellowing pages, the endless rows of books waiting for a candle to ignite their leather-bound mouths so that they might utter the secrets they withheld in their dusty bowels to curious ears once again.

Yet, of his searching in the wide range of truths and legends, he never really told the curator. The truth was… he was infatuated by something- a certain subject that he should never have marveled at as keenly as if it had been something entirely moral. Recently, his searches had started to revolve around a certain figure; always, the books about the nineteenth dynasty Pharaohs were open, the books about the art of dancers, of concubines and musicians, the beliefs and protocols of that distant Egyptian era would be strewn on the desks of the library. He never seemed to find what he was looking for- always devouring the next book, the next myth, the next generation.

Thinking he might be of some help to Ardeth's strange search, the curator had thought it might be interesting to gauge the aloof warrior's reaction if he notified him of their latest find- at a dig down in Thebes, a spectacularly long chunk of wall had been unearthed and he'd instantly bought it for his collection, dating it back to the nineteenth dynasty and wondering just who that mysterious, blotted-out figure might've been; the human form amidst the hieroglyphs that was made up of little craters, standing by the Pharaoh's beautifully painted figure.

The curator stood in the storeroom, watching mutely as Ardeth, standing before the impressive mural, reverently brushed the tips of his fingers across the censored face, as though the mutilation was the finest work of art he'd ever set eyes on.

"What do you think of it?" the elder man asked in Arabic, the liquid syllables flowing from his mouth as naturally as anything.

Some kind of tension left Ardeth's shoulders as he stood there, seemingly having quenched his insatiable need for knowledge.

"You know who that is," the curator spoke again as Ardeth revised his words. The young warrior was slightly startled- had he been that obvious in his clumsy searching? Yet he felt like he should keep these things to himself. It was his own quest for knowledge, and nothing was forcing him to splay it out in the face of anyone who asked for it. And besides, secrecy had always been his forte. He loved the adrenaline that it procured- the delicious sense that what he was interested in should be cast away at all costs. This was _his_ obsession; he would be the one to follow the trails to wherever they lead him, and he'd take the journey alone.

He turned his dark eyes to his superior.

"No more than you do."

The curator's salt-and-pepper beard hitched at the corners of his mouth as he smiled- though, Ardeth couldn't quite tell what he meant by it. Was the man making fun of him? Or was he pleased that apparently Ardeth's knowledge didn't surpass his own?

"So the mystery endures," the old man said, raising his eyebrows expressively before turning around, meaning to head for the door that lead to the library. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of any assistance in this quest of yours. Oh!" His lacquered shoe suddenly swayed in mid-air as he faltered, spinning around again as something came screeching back to his mind. Ardeth watched his antics with very mild interest, waiting for the man to leave him to his observation of this beautiful mural.

"It might interest you to know," the curator spoke slowly, some kind of slyness alight in his black eyes, "that a young woman has been coming to the library for the past few days, researching the same things as you."

No response. The curator let his words sink in, thinking to himself that had probably been useless- no matter, anything he'd tried to do for the insatiable Medjai had proved to be futile. If only he knew the subject of Ardeth's interest- but, no, enshroud in secrecy it all was, and he wasn't about to stick a foot in the fog and disturb Ardeth's calculated state of mind. Sighing, the curator left the storeroom, taking out his little golden watch and contemplating the glass face that hung from a delicate gold chain.

"I'll be closing the museum for noontime, my friend. Come down to have a drink with me, if you want," he called over his shoulder.

"I'll be staying, thank you," came the reply from the torchlit room.

Ardeth listened as the doors closed successively; there was a bit of shuffling in the library beyond, hushed voices, a feminine timbre that was on the verge of pleading- apparently, the woman in question was granted her wish and the curator's lacquered heels snapped on the ground as he made his way to the door that led back to the museum, locking it as he went.

So, this woman. The warrior's curiosity had been further ignited. What was a _woman_ doing in this section of the museum- searching through the same dynasties as him, faced perhaps by the same mysterious absence of the characters that played the main parts in the legends he so desperately sought to understand? He almost felt possessive of the legend his entire existence was based upon. Or rather… he most definitely was possessive of the woman that played a major role, in her costumes of kohl and gold and ivory beads.

Oh, the concubine, the princess, the _queen_… the Pharaoh's beloved plaything. How intriguing she was; she, the character in the story for whom there was no abrupt rupture in an otherwise calm and peaceful life; she'd always lived on the brink of death, the brink of depression, of insanity, ever since she'd been sold to the palace at the most tender of ages… at least, that was how the story went. What with the things she'd been through, it could hardly be deemed as human for her to have survived it all and kept an iron grip on reality, on her sense of _being_. The infamous concubine had stayed herself till the very end; how could others ignore that crucial fact? How could they simply overlook it, brand her as some kind of Untouchable whose name must never be uttered, whose face must never surface in one's sane mind, lest it pollute one's purity?

_Since when has Man's mind borne any kind of purity? _If anything should be called pure, it was her admirable resolve, her faith… her irredeemable beauty.

Had she been fragile at any point in her life? How many times had she fallen apart, in order to be so solidly strung back together? ...

Ardeth had stepped into the library before he'd realized his feet had started moving. Oh, he was wrong to love her, he was wrong to believe so strongly that there were no villains in the true legend, save for the accursed creature that the warriors for God had wrought with their own hands. But he did, and he couldn't help his desire to tear down the censorship and bring her forbidden memory, her forbidden face back to their minds.

The dark warrior slowly made his way down an aisle, shelves of paper wisdom rising at his flanks, his hand resting on his scimitar hilt as was its custom. If he looked past the spaces between the books, he could glimpse the tables in the middle of the room where a black-haired woman was seated, head bowed and a long curtain of ebony hair veiling her face as she eagerly lapped up knowledge from the thick tome open before her.

Ardeth's fingers trailed absent-mindedly along the knobbly spines of the books. _Who are you…? _He found himself curiously trying to render his footsteps velvet, almost catching his breath as he crept on, hidden behind the bookshelves. Two more steps now, and he'd come out in the open; just behind her chair.

His eyes never broke away from the back of her head as he came out from behind the bookshelf, stopping at a foot from the back of her chair.

She was shaking her head softly as she read, fingers strumming nervously on the table beside the dusty tome.

"Why are you never there," she whispered furiously to herself suddenly, and he didn't even realize that she was speaking a different language that he could still understand. The elders had taught him this; along with the reasons of his existence, the old legends, the old tales of protection and nameless creatures that brought about incredible fear. _Old fools_. He could understand now, how the young boys were brainwashed with the stories, and opinions that they must have about them- it is for the Nameless ones that we live, it is to ensure the world's safety by keeping them buried in the sands that our existences continue to unfold. Nothing more. Nothing less.

… _nothing more, nothing less? …_

How could he _not_ disobey to that…? Ardeth almost smirked at himself, at his own rebellion that didn't really look like one to him, but that must seem utterly blasphemous to the elders. And now he was probably betraying one more of the elders' sacred codes- his eyes were lingering on the slight bump that this woman's bra clasp made beneath her linen shirt, so discreet, so implicit. Her shoulders were bony, arms slender and spine drawing a fine line down the length of her back. The way she was hunched over the table, her dark hair parted at the back to fall past each shoulder, her legs crossed on the chair like a child's… something about her struck him, as though he'd been waiting to meet her, in some impossible kind of way.

She sighed an irritated sigh, pale forearm rising to sink beneath her thick hair and throw it back out of the way. Ardeth suppressed a smile, knowing exactly what she felt like- he came around and delicately laid a hand just beside hers on the table, looming over her right flank.

"Another soul dropping into the holes of the nineteenth dynasty, I see?" he spoke with a tinge of sarcasm in his deep-throated baritone. The young woman blinked as she glanced up at him, this dark man all wrapped up in black folds and beaded trinkets and leather belts. She must've been wondering why he was talking to her- he didn't quite understand why, himself. But there was something about her, this kind of despairing patience that he could identify with, that he could understand completely; and besides, since the dawn of time man has always been fond of gathering around him those who resemble him the most, so he deemed it perfectly natural to capture her attention.

"There must be a reason why, whenever we're on the verge of finding something out, we topple over the edge and find that we've bitten rock bottom once again," she said slowly, eyes sparkling as she watched him, the corners of her mouth delicately twitching as though she was hesitating to smile; as though she was judging whether or not to trust him. She had a peculiar accent, almost French but a tad more exotic, and not quite as dry; her face was angular with high-set cheekbones and fine lips, a perfect terrain for those sharp-witted eyes. Though, he could almost see the fog of confusion that had settled around them – the absence of resolve in the way she closed her lips, in the way she tilted her head as she looked up at him. She was a wandering soul; she seemed to be here for much-needed answers, just like him. It looked like he'd found a partner in this foggy marsh that was their area of research; the place where they had to unearth piece by piece the puzzle that they sought to complete, if only it could help to complete themselves.

"I've been through that tome," Ardeth said, nodding down at the book she was poring over, "The closest you'll get to Seti is the financial sky-rocketing royalty was going through in that era, and his son Rameses. Nothing about his closest attendants, his…" He didn't know what she was searching for exactly, but he had a feeling it was just as immoral as him. "… close advisors."

The young woman looked back down at the impressive tome, fingering the frayed edges of the old, faded green cover.

"What tells you I'm searching for his close advisors?"

"Information lacks the most in that area, as well as the reasons behind Seti's death. I assumed…" He trailed off, seeing her shoulders tensing slightly. Aha, had he hit a nerve? So she knew something about the legends to which he was but a humble slave? Curious, he'd thought they had only survived through the narrow generations of Medjai into which he'd been born…

"I'm sorry-"

The woman dismissed his apology a little too quickly. "What? Nothing to be sorry for. You assumed right, though. I am searching for his adv- advisors," she stammered, staring hard at the book before her as though she could make the fading ink melt away. "Searching and finding _nothing_," she added, muttering it vehemently as though cursing herself, flipping the book shut and resting her elbows ontop of it, hands coming up to massage her face. She sighed, strands of hair drifting before her face, and he watched her, thinking to himself how her movements had an airy grace to them, and how the articulations in her wrists and fingers seemed to be made of glass, so fine, so fragile.

She was more beautiful in her finesse than any of the women to have crossed his path so far; he hadn't seen many asides from the voluptuary women of his country, delicious with their deep crimson lips and rolling honey curves. This woman was thin, delicate, and so pale it almost shocked him; as though she was some kind of revenant, searching for her old existence with those bony fingers rummaging through pierced pockets.

"How long have you been searching, mister?" she mumbled into her palms.

"…A very long time."

"Oh." She let her hands drop, curling her fingers around the book and unfolding her legs to get up, remarkably evoking a heron as she straightened- she was taller than your average Cairo-dwelling woman, too. She shot him a sudden smile, her eyes warm. "Then we're in the same boat. When the curator comes back and unlocks the door, I'll invite you to a drink- we deserve as much."

"And until then?" Ardeth could almost sense a trap.

"Until then, let's pretend you never distracted me, and get back to our respective research." She was smiling a devilish smile.

"Let me help you," Ardeth insisted, always a gentleman. "We have a common research field."

"Ah, but you can't be after the same man as me," she argued, shaking her head, bangles swaying from her bony wrists as she staggered forward with the book crushing her chest, meaning to put it back on its shelf. "_No one_ knows who I'm looking for… at least, no one believes me."

"Oh, really…" He was ready to accept that. Again, he knew what she meant.

She turned around, having heaved the tome back onto its shelf, her flamboyant eyes effortlessly catching his own. "No. You don't mean that. You _don't_ know. Now come on, we never spoke."

He grinned to himself, turned away from her and heading for the storeroom.

• •

"I don't even know why I'm here with you," Meela was saying, fingering her glass with nails of the same countenance, resolutely refusing to meet Ardeth's gaze from across the round table. "You could be some depraved rapist who picks his victims in old musty libraries."

"I'd have to be depraved if I picked my victims in _musty libraries_, you're right there," Ardeth said, leaning back on his chair and not touching his drink, aware that a few of the dirty men that crowded the bar were openly staring at him; a young black-clad nomad with tattoos on his cheeks and hands certainly didn't go unnoticed, and his companion outshone the crusty old harlots who hung on the barstools like old crows searching for new corpses to pick at, by far. He tried to position himself so that his back stood firmly between their prying eyes and her delicate frame. It was true that she seemed delicate, judging by appearance, but now that he'd talked with her a little, he could glimpse some utterly new dimension behind that cunning look, something that he was sure didn't need physical strength to be properly competent.

She was laughing behind her fingers, hiding her mouth from him as if she was afraid he wouldn't like the sight; all women had their flaws, after all, be they physical or otherwise, and crooked teeth were common in this decrepit era.

"And anyway, I think you _do_ know why you sought my company," he said.

"Oh, really? I thought it was _you_ who sought me out first." She raised her eyebrow, inviting him to go on anyway.  
"I think you are a learnt woman, and that your being here is just a higher step in the scholar's path that you've been walking for a while now. I think you are one of those curious people who have assembled much knowledge of this planet's human trivia, and are never satisfied by that amount." A pause- Ardeth had come forward to lean his elbows on the table, taking a sip of his drink. She watched as he leaned his head back, throat exposed, lash-bordered eyes squinting.

"…well, that much is obvious. A young woman researching ancient Egypt in old libraries isn't very common." She seemed a little agitated by where he was going with his assumptions; he could feel her legs bouncing nervously under the table, disturbing his robes and almost touching him.

"Oh yes," Ardeth smiled a little coldly as he set his glass back down, staring at her rather too intimately for her taste. "That's precisely why I think you, unlike most women, know what these mean." And he brought the tip of his finger to the fine calligraphy on his cheeks and forehead.

She restrained a sudden reaction- he noticed her fist clenching on the table.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she hissed, suddenly frigid, her friendly expression withdrawing. From the start, the Medjai had noticed this peculiar thing about her; as though she couldn't quite bring herself to accept the knowledge handed to her. Out of simple curiosity, he decided to push the matter further- this woman intrigued him, and there was always that attractive aspect that she was capable of sitting down and having a discussion that involved subjects he adored, unlike most women he'd met.

"Why do you think I know so much? I'm only sitting here for lack of more constructive things to do. Nighttime in this place can get so lonely…" She averted her eyes.

He refused to accept that she was only borrowing his company for the night. There had to be something more! Or this intuition he had was simply worthless in the end. Besides, she'd already had a few drinks – she might be easier to crack. He couldn't resist the temptation, seeing her so secretive and reluctant to yield to his questions.

"But you _do_ know so much." His voice was low- he leaned forward and she stubbornly stayed with her back to her chair, watching him warily. "Why deny knowledge? It's what we live for- it's the insatiable thirst that gives us reason to open our eyes to the world. And you know I retain knowledge that spreads beyond your imagination, which is why you didn't repel me when I spoke to you-"

"Stop it!" She suddenly cried, but in a hushed voice, leaning forwards and slapping her palms on the table's surface. Her eyes drilled entire wells into his. "What's wrong with you? What do you want from me, in the end? I'm just sharing a drink with some stranger who took interest in me, for reasons I can't fathom- and who seems to think I'm some incredibly knowledgeable person when in reality I'm just your average scholar, for God's sake, I'm just a young woman trying to find answers, Christ, isn't that just natural, I mean, why do you have to go and make a big deal about it-"

Ardeth was laughing; her cheeks were flushed a soft red hue, and her eyes were all the blacker, sizzling under those knitted brows.

"Don't get carried away," he smiled, though she remained unamused- it was such a pleasure to vex her, he just couldn't help himself. But, but, he had to remember his manners. Just because she was different didn't mean he could pry at her peculiar personality like a maggot in an unfamiliar corpse- there was some respect to be had.

"Then don't- don't _aggravate_ me." She sighed violently, throwing herself back against her chair and casting her eyes down. He took another swig of his drink, enjoying himself more than she could possibly imagine. Just as he was about to open his mouth, though, it seemed she couldn't restrain herself; she leapt at him again, elbows coming forwards onto the table and making the glasses tremble. "And why should I know what those tattoos mean? Is it some secret that no one else knows; is that what makes me special? Come _on_, you just want to have found some wildly intelligent person, when in reality, you're far from that." And then she leaned back again, ripping herself away from her breathless rant and adopting that strange, cool, nonchalant façade again.

She had a very strange way of protesting and trying to get her points across, he realized. Letting his fingers slide away from where they were, stabilizing the glass's rim as she assaulted the table's equilibrium, he gazed at her with an amused glitter in his eye.

"I'm far from that," he said calmly, his own voice sounding bizarrely stoned compared to her speedy articulations, "Maybe I am far from the 'wildly intelligent person', but I know you know what I know, though perhaps you don't know that I know what you know."

She was squinting at him.

"…see? Now you're _testing_ me," she spat, glaring at him when he laughed. She was so susceptible, it was almost comical- actually there was no 'almost' about it.

"I'm not testing you," he said in a husky murmur, without really meaning to, his voice just coming out the way it did because of the way his shoulders bunched as he leaned on his elbows, looking down into his empty glass. He then noticed her sudden lack of reaction, so he realized that he was probably being unjustly _present_ in front of her, for lack of better words, so he leaned back and drew his robes a little closer to his chest, clearing his throat. He didn't want to disturb her in any _other_ way than he was doing now… at least, not at the moment.

"Do you want to go out?" he asked her, deciding that the raucous behaviour of the people around them and the uncomfortable sturdiness of the chair were becoming a little bit much, and to his surprise she was on her feet without even bothering to answer.

"I'm on the bill," she simply said, and then she disappeared into the crowd of brute alcoholics, causing him a mild panic as he stared after her, losing sight of her and getting up despite himself, a hand twitching towards his concealed scimitar handle as he watched the drunkards knocking each other about at the bar, ready to pounce on the slightest hint of violence.

She came back intact, to his relief, and she just gave him a vague look before gathering her things and sauntering out of the bar, ignoring the dangerously dilated pupils that trailed after her. Deciding that she just wanted him to run after her trying to beg for forgiveness, Ardeth simply adopted the same nonchalant look, catching up to her quite easily and walking by her side with one hand resting on his scimitar hilt, eyes half on the squat buildings and the incredible scattered-jewel appearance of the night sky above.

They didn't talk for quite a while, simply walking together, Meela trying to keep to her furious pace and Ardeth making his usual long strides, not even making an effort to keep up with her and knowing it annoyed her- though, cleverly, he refrained from smiling. She could say all she wanted- she was anything but an uninteresting 'find', and for reasons that he'd discovered whilst talking with her, he wanted more of her company – wanted to see where this night might end up.

At some point, they turned into a narrow street and he was becoming more and more aware of her slowing down and the arrogant, careless look that she'd constructed on her face melting away. Oh, he knew Time and its tricks; he knew the subtleties and rewards of simple patience, and tonight he'd tested his knowledge only to find it true once again.

His much-awaited reward came in form of an exasperated sigh falling from her slim lips.

"I'll admit," she finally said, breaking the silence and shifting her bag on her shoulder distractedly, looking down at the dirt road they were treading, "that you are a clever man."

He waited, his level of arrogance not quite high enough for him to feel flattered; there was something more to her comment. To his surprise, as he looked down at her, he realized that behind her cool façade, there had been this anxious face; this look of utter confusion that was vastly amplified compared to the one he'd seen in the library.

"If I know what those tattoos mean, then I know what stories you're connected to; and those stories are the ones I'm most interested in." She looked up at him, finally. "If you were someone I knew and appreciated, I'd say that I was sorry for using you, and for trying to get you to drink in order to gather that knowledge from you: but I've fooled so many others that frankly, I've stopped caring. And, well, you're a cleverer man than those who've crossed my path so far. So, I don't know what to say, except that you have unfair intuition and that, well…" She had looked away by now. "You were right."

"Ah." He was waiting for her to continue, not quite knowing what to say that wouldn't vex her- now that things were getting _seriously_ interesting, he preferred not to rouse her anger and instead try to get to the things that tormented her- the very reason he'd approached her in the first place.

She must've sensed this, the non-judgemental silence, the expectancy. He noticed how she was swaying slightly as she walked- she'd had several drinks, and it gave her some kind of unearthly grace, as though she were walking on strings instead of solid ground, teetering here and there and vaguely holding out her arms without really realizing what she was doing.

She looked up at him again, this time somewhat imploringly; her honest expression surprised him a little, she who concealed so much of herself. "So yes, I know things," she said, once again adopting that bizarrely breathless tone where the phrases were interrupted at regular intervals by sharp intakes of breath as if it exhausted her to talk but she had to get it all out as quickly as possible, as though the ideas might vanish before she could put them into words. "I know that you're a Medjai, I know you're a protector of the ancient legends, the ancient curses, a desert-dwelling warrior that fulfills some kind of sacred duty. I know your generations, your genealogical tree has roots that go deep enough to tickle the beginnings of monarchy itself. I've read about these things- my university doesn't teach those things, but they hint at them, so I've always liked to dig deeper, to know _more_, because I-" A pause. The silence was almost brutal- he stared at her, willing her to continue, not even thinking any more as he tried to keep up with her crazy thinking-pace. He hadn't realized they were slowing considerably as she talked, there in that narrow moonlit street where there was no other light, nothing but the lingering smell of cooked meat and dust, and the night's tranquil shadows.

Her chin was against her collarbone as she spoke, brows coming together again. "I don't know. I don't _know_ what's wrong with me, but I've always felt… _close_ to that era. So close that its tragedies feel personal, its people feel like family, but eerily accurate, you know? Other Egyptologists will probably say the same, that they live for their passion, that they know their past lives must've been in that place because they love it so much and they dig up generations of artifacts and precious tallied lives- but it's not the same thing. They don't…" Another pause. He was staring at her, breathless. Her cheeks were soft curves in the moonlight, her lips gorgeous slivers of silver, and he found he quite simply couldn't take his eyes off her as she illustrated her words with hand gestures, eyes wide and desperate as they searched the air around her as if for answers that she knew weren't there at all. She was _fascinating_.

"They don't?" he prompted her, unable to stay silent in this suspense.

She dragged her eyes to his, and what he saw in them almost made him shiver. It was dangerous, and huge, and yet vulnerable somehow, tainted with incredulity and rage.

"They don't _see_ the things I do. They don't witness ruins rebuilding themselves before their very eyes- they don't step into a room and see the walls flare to life, see long-faded colours come ablaze once again, see beautiful kohl-eyed people walking in broad daylight. Christ, they see none of that, they don't dream insane dreams- how can they say they know so much about these things if they're so absent from them, compared to what I experience? How? I don't understand." By now her breaths were coming in great gasps, and the moonlight shimmered on the snail-like trails on her cheeks- the droplets glinted like molten silver as they fell from her chin.

They had stopped now, and she'd inched closer to him without really knowing, whilst all he could do was be baffled by her antics, by her desperation that was gaining more and more sense- he had a feeling that her beauty wasn't unfamiliar to him, that those eyes were older than they seemed, darker than they should be as they shone under a fresh sheen of tears.

She was drunk, alright, but not so much- and he was persuaded that she was telling the truth. And for some reason, her story gave him shivers of anticipation- he felt a great surge of adrenaline as he watched her, trying to stare past her face, trying to read between the lines of what she'd said. He felt as though he was groping blindly at an immense treasure, unable to see what lay at mere inches from his searching fingertips.

"Dreams…? What is it you dream of- what is this insanity you witness?" he tried to prompt her again, but it looked like she'd suddenly lost all interest; her eyes trailed on the ground, mouth shut in a bitter kind of disappointment, acting as though he didn't exist, as though she'd lost herself in her brooding thoughts. Irritated beyond coherent reason by this, Ardeth lifted his hand and caught a tear on the tip of his finger, deliberately trying to draw her attention to him as he traced her cheekbone with his moist fingertip. Seemingly jolted back to reality, she shot him a sudden, fiery look.

"Why am I telling you all this, anyway? I know you're too fond of your secrets: your entire culture is too selfish of their old traditions and folklore to hand it out to random people who moan and beg for knowledge. You're not going to tell me anything, so I don't see what good it'll do me if I tell you my entire life when there's nothing in return." Again, she dropped her gaze, lips coming together in the same disappointed expression.

He was at a loss as to how to cope with her slightly lunatic ways. But he still felt as though he was at _mere centimetres _from that treasure he couldn't quite see yet; he had to try anything and everything if he had to, in order to find out the great meaning behind this meeting, this collision of two kindred souls.

They were facing each other now, standing closer than strangers usually stand.

"Ask me all the questions in the world," he murmured, heart racing as he felt himself crawling further towards the truth, "ask me anything at all, and I'll answer as sincerely as I can, if you'll only trade your own knowledge for mine."

She gave a laugh suddenly, facial expression warming considerably. She looked up at him, so close now they could've been lovers hanging in the silent void before a kiss.

"Any question at all?" she slurred, staring fixedly at his eyes.

"Anything," he replied.

"What if it's an unfair trade?" she smiled wickedly. Gods, she was killing him with her hesitance, her damnable suspense.

"Then I'll _make_ it fair," he whispered back, and quite suddenly his hand had curled around her waist and pressed against her lower back, pulling her to him so that his scimitar hilt dug into her lower belly and her elbows knocked against him, arms bent and caught between their chests. His forearm fit perfectly against the curve of her waist, and he whirled her around almost violently, trapping her against the wall of a cheap house, eyes downcast and still caught in her own bewilderingly accusing stare. His free palm slapped against the wall just above her left shoulder, blocking all escape.

She was breathing rather heavily – and he hadn't realized that he was, too. _What was he doing_? He searched her face, painfully aware of her beauty as it glowed in the dim, ghastly light. The knowledge, it was hidden there, it scathed his fingertips; so infuriatingly near-

Her chin inched upwards, her breath skittering across his lower lip, making him repress a shudder- her arms straightened, hanging from his shoulders, and it seemed she didn't care what the hell happened now, her leg intimately pressing against the side of his own; he tried to see past her expression but he might as well have tried to see a face in a brick wall; nothing, just a damnably heavy-lidded gaze and eyes that swam in the glorious euphoria of carelessness, insincere, and _beautifully_ so- but then she shattered everything with a whisper.

"There is no _fair_ when one is sober and the other isn't."

"But you're perfectly sober," he argued, snuggling a thigh between hers, this desperate _want_ interfering with all other aspects of human desire and setting ablaze his nervous system, whilst fraying all concept of reason he might've had. She who was so delicate, she whose very face was a glass mask- why couldn't he break her, if he truly wanted it? He could feel her back arching, chest crushing against his own- what was she thinking, he wondered, if she was still capable of coherent thought in her state-

"You're lying," she breathed, smiling mockingly, "If I was sober, I wouldn't want to make senseless love to you as I do now."

His breathing accelerated in his rage, and he could've simply abandoned himself to violence to end this silly suspense; but he couldn't strike a woman, especially when he needed her so badly. His hands slowly moved down her ribs, pressing into the fine dips of her waist, and her hips shifted slightly, a sigh escaping her parted lips. Oh, he knew how to tenderly strip away their resistance; to him it had almost become an art.

"One question," she said, finally giving up and allowing him this small luxury.

He hardly hesitated. "Give me a name," he whispered, feeling her shudder as he bent his head to dig the tip of his tongue in the gap beneath her jawline. Gods, she was tormenting him- though his thirst had taken a slightly different turn, he couldn't know how she was really reacting to all this, because she stayed stubbornly silent; only sighing softly and twining her legs tighter around his. Damn her and her unbearable secrecy, damn her trying to distract him with her deliciously cold fingers against his throat -

And then the answer came, easily as anything, a cool whisper against his mouth.

"_Anck-su-namun_."

…It was ice. Crashing, breaking into crystalline splinters and slicing through him- realization, horrid realization, tearing down his very heartbeat and rendering him numb, as though pierced through-and-through by an abominable shockwave and unable to handle the aftereffects. This was the silken lips of a mythical goddess, a mythical martyr, these was the hands of a pharaonic concubine, tracing his collarbones, sending burning currents through his body as he mindlessly absorbed the feeling of her breath against his mouth, her fine waist between his arms, _Allah_, those legs entwined with his; but he had known, he had _known_, he had felt it somehow, as surely as one feels an echo of past suffering ripple through one's body when stepping on sacred paving stones of an ancient place. And this entity whom he had become hopelessly infatuated with- why had he not connected the dots sooner? Why had he not felt some warning, when he set eyes on this monstrous beauty, this vile reincarnation of absolute _perfection_- and then he could almost smell the fragrant oil on her naked skin, as he reverently kissed the corner of her mouth, he could almost hear the lapis pearls and gold clinking around her neck, soft hair falling over his fingers as he touched her shoulders- _what is this horror, this aberration- !?_

There could be no replacement for a pure being that had long since wasted away; it was absurd, this, this _game_, this gamble for knowledge, when this woman held such unimaginable wealth in a safe cocoon hidden somewhere beneath her breast, and she couldn't, simply couldn't be touching him, allowing them to be here like this, when she was a replica of – of the one being he absolutely and unconditionally…

… _loved?_

He realized she had somewhat overcome her drunken state, and her arms had come down to hug his waist, legs withdrawing from his so that she straightened against him, rather holding him to her than trying to satiate his mindless desire.

Her shoulders were shaking- pressing the side of his face into her silky lengths of black hair as his hands crept around her shoulders, he pressed her to him, confused, not knowing quite how he should react. At the same time that he wanted to tear himself from her and shut his eyes on this entire incident, he also wanted to know her, strangely- he wanted to know how… how this was possible- how she could live, how she could act as she did… think and believe what she did.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, voice trembling, "...all truth be told. And it's so _pathetic_."

"No…" he muttered into her hair, though he didn't know how to go on. "I know, I understand. I'll help you."

"You can't help me." Her slender arms made a blissful pressure around his waist, though he could feel the embrace loosening. "You'd do that out of love, pity, whatever- and yet I can't love you. I can't care about you. I'm set on the one thing in the whole world that can complete me, that can take away this confusion, that can give me _reason_… I'd be using you- for you it would be a fruitless labour."

"I thought you didn't care who you used, as long as they helped you toward your goal." His voice was a guttural murmur against her throat.

"You know you're different to them," Meela whispered into his shoulder.

A chuckle. "You hardly know me."

"But I know enough to differentiate you from the others; beings without belief, without respect, without tenderness towards anything save their liquor and their coins."

"Flattery…"

Soft lips against his throat. "You can't deny it, though."

"…should I thank you?"

"Definitely not. Do you usually thank those who kindly abuse of you?"

"Honestly, I can't answer- people don't often 'kindly abuse' of me."

He felt her cheek hitch against his throat as she smiled. "…Sorry."

"Hm. You're not the only one who abused of another tonight."

A sly pause. "… I guess you're right." Meela's arms tightened again around his waist, holding this solid, marble torso against herself, the warmth pleasantly engulfing her- her cheek was against his shoulder, and in just one second, he had the time to think that this morning he had had no idea that this woman even existed- so ridiculous to think that, now that his pulse was throbbing and the realizations had positively scarred his living mind- and then her arms fell away from him, and she'd stepped back, self-consciously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Where do you sleep, in this city?"

He hesitated. "…I'll take you to your dwelling, first."

"You sure?"

"Of course."

…and they walked, Meela having learnt absolutely nothing from the Medjai, and Ardeth having learnt nothing more than the simple fact that his obsession was curled up in a fetal position somewhere in the subconscious of this being that he'd half-molested for answers that he'd never gotten; nevertheless, they walked side by side, ancient enemies, modern strangers. For there were no more rules in this era that had endured from the millennia before Christ- no festering hatred that had lasted through thousands of years was at work. And there was a simple beauty in the moment itself; the minutes during which these beings with ancient burdens upon their shoulders just existed side by side, not caring to hearken to the old voices, the old prophecies- those things had passed out of fashion, out of living memory, and would lie safely in the dark until the right occasion arose for them to stir once again.

They got to the front door of a small shack that didn't really stand out amidst the streets and streets of identical small shacks, Meela thrusting a key into a rusty old lock and kicking the door open when it wouldn't yield. The entrance yawned on a corridor whose floor was littering with papers and various objects, as though a bomb had hit the place and scattered everything everywhere- but Meela didn't seem to be bothered by the mess. She stepped into the doorway, thinking that she might turn around when she closed the door and kind of… wave goodbye, or something- it was a bit sad, really, that they would part now and probably never meet again. Who could tell what was going through her mind, when Ardeth's hand reached out suddenly and grabbed her shoulder, whirling her around- who could tell what she was thinking as he wrapped an arm around her in a vice-grip and kissed her full on the mouth, the gesture seemingly screaming, _this is incoherent, this is insane, and it has been from the very beginning- so why the hell not? _

Even when they broke away from each other, and Ardeth began to apologize, she shook her head, saying something silly like, "What? Nothing to be sorry for," knowing they'd already crossed the boundaries- too late to go back to the old moralities now, too late to feel guilty for a past that they'd already discarded.

There had to be a proper way to wrap it up, just like there was a proper way to do anything… and she didn't really feel like letting him go just yet, this delicious stranger, this tome of knowledge that she had yet to open. So her fingers curled around the nightshade folds of his robes, and she pulled him into the darkness, skidding across the floor of script and crumpled history, a foot flying out and slamming the door shut.

• •

**a&n:** This absolutely didn't come out as I expected it to... much too dry and, emotionless somehow. It's harder than you might think to make this couple coherent- anyway, hope you still liked it! Tell me what you think. :)


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